Take from my soul this present world,
let it bear no fruit from out my mind,
for I still do but live and breathe
within the sweet tide of yesterday;
its mem’ry lingers, sweetly mellow,
holding me soft, so warm and kind,
its weight ‘ere etched into my hands,
and e’er, enfolded, thus shall it stay.
Tho’ such mem’ry does tarry uneasy,
shall I be made of it more in light,
by its guard, its hold, and its sanity,
and by its resolute want of staid;
shall I burden myself with outcomes,
shall fancy take hold, or take flight,
shall I bear sword for duels unkind,
or shall familiar melody be played.
‘Ere, tho’ but in vain, do I still hope,
as rain sheds off from thirsty flower,
as is my sullen mind yet left adrift,
unharried, its way, so too, undone;
‘ere, shall this listless summer dawn,
wither away with each passing hour,
then, let my prior night’s keen aware,
be as a heated strain upon the sun.